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I'd heard about this; those fizzing, zapping, arcing Venusian bolts that could fuse together beings in their first encounter. A Cupidian wormhole through which Plato saw theia mania, infected others with l'amour fou and consumed me in ishq/عشق.

She liked my squirly hair and my geeky smarts. This tiny, fierce, firecracker with the curves and the tats and the Marlboros cast a spell that engulfed the both of us… but she gave me the wrong digits, leaving me calling a dead line for weeks.

But that electricity, those signals, continued their crackling course through the ether and the networks. That summer, we became entangled in a quantum embrace, unable to be fully described without considering the other.

But love isn't a particle, quantifiable or predictable, and infatuation corrodes wisdom.

That night in August, we lay in the grass in the park, entwined under a blanket of stars, bathed in moonlight… and briefly, by the torchlight of one voyeuristic caretaker. You tasted of cigarettes and MAC.

I'd crossed the mountains to come and see you that night, to assure you there was no one else, to place my life in your hands so that you could carry it safely to its end. But you thought we'd never want the same things.

Later, I watched you fall asleep in my arms under a traffic light on Middleton Road. Did its pulsing redness signal love, or to stop, to go?

I think we lived all the stories of our possible lives together under that light; futures forming and fracturing, homes and gardens, children.

The wormhole was closing, our quantum entanglement was unravelling, the network was flashing red.